Last night as I was tucking Rowan in to bed he started crying. I asked him what was wrong and he told me “I miss our old house, I liked it better.” I was kind of taken aback, because we’ve lived in this house for nearly 3 years now. It’s bigger, nicer, in a beautiful neighborhood, has a view and a big yard. I couldn’t understand why he would have liked our tiny two bedroom condo better than this. So I asked.
I wasn’t prepared for his answer, “It’s the only place Sloan lived mama.” And then we both cried together. Because while this house may be bigger, and better for us, he’s right. Our condo was the only place Sloan lived.
When he died, one of the first solid decisions Justin and I were able to make together, was that we couldn’t stay in our home. The first night we’d packed bags and stayed down the road at my parents house because we didn’t want to be alone in the place he’d died. And then every day after that we just couldn’t fathom going back, walking past the boys room where he’d gone to sleep and never woken up, cooking at the kitchen counter where CPR had been attempted, sitting on our couch in the living room where we’d cradled his empty body.
We left that first night, and Rowan never saw that condo again. I hadn’t considered that while we thought we were protecting ourselves, we’d whisked Rowan away from his home at an age where he’d remember, but not understand. We’d been so focused on leaving the place Sloan died, but to Rowan, it was the place Sloan had lived. It’s a heartbreaking lesson in perspective.